Jackal of All Trades (The Wild Operatives: MacArthur Security Book 1)

by Vivienne Savage

  “Yo, man, are you going to come out any time soon?”

  Damn him.

  Did the man realize I’d been too busy stroking off to the mere thought of sharing our gorgeous client with him in a sexual frenzy?

  “Just hold on!” I shouted back. Rushing, I shut off the water and stepped out, taking a towel down from the hooks to dry off as briskly as I would at home with three younger siblings rushing me for their turn.

  Thankfully, orgasm had calmed my arousal down to less than a semi-erection, nothing unusual for a man fresh from a hot shower. Giving my state of undress no further thought, I tore open the door to hurry outside into the cooler bedroom of our shared suite.

  My parents had raised me from an early age to understand that nudity was a normal part of shifter life. It took us years from childhood to adolescence to control our abilities to shapeshift, and sometimes, at the onset of puberty when our emotions got the best of us, we burst out of our clothing.

  The entire village knew what we were. I never had to fear hiding my tiger side. I never had to worry that one mishap would expose us.

  Living in America had been nothing but culture shock from the moment I stepped off the plane to make a life for myself. Here, I’d only encountered two different shifter communities in Quickdraw and Swan Lake. Villages where our kind could be themselves proved to be few and far between.

  Our gazes met, apology on the tip of my tongue. I didn’t utter a word, instead averting my attention to the floor.

  I couldn’t look at him. Not now.

  Because I knew if I did, a self-administered hand-job wouldn’t be enough, and I’d need his lips around my dick next.

  Nadir

  Two things came to mind when Suraj emerged and stood framed in the opening of a well-lit bathroom, his body gleaming like a bronzed god.

  First, he had abs worthy of worship, his chest equally defined and accented by soft wisps of dark hair that glinted gold whenever the light struck him. Those soft curls converged into a trail that I’d seen vanish beneath the waistband of his pants on numerous occasions during our time together in the apartment as flatmates. No sweats or workout pants obscured my view this time.

  Stripped and bared in all his glory, he strutted from the bathroom sporting a semi glistening as wetly as the rest of his half-dried body. My cock jerked with interest and started to swell. In the gay community, we’d call him a bear, his body deliciously muscled beneath a softer layer of fat that didn’t detract from his fabulous physique.

  Second, the tiger shifter had the guilty sort of look that told me he hadn’t been just taking a shower in the bathroom during the long-ass time he’d monopolized it. Honestly, I couldn’t blame the guy for stroking it the moment he had free, uninterrupted time alone in a bathroom larger than a bathroom cubicle. When personal time came as the rarest of commodities while on the road, we had to scrape out whatever moment we had to handle our business.

  Images flashed through my head of Suraj under the shower spray, cock in his hand, forearm flexing with each pump.

  It was the wrong kind of image to allow in my mind. I pushed it aside in favor of shooting him a grin and squeezing by him into a steamy bathroom redolent with the smell of tiger and spiced vanilla bourbon. The unique musk of his scent lingered in the air with masculine soap. More than once, I’d overheard the girls commenting about how he always smelled so good. How I’d never noticed it, when smell was such a prominent part of shifter culture, was anyone’s guess, but it was all my mind would focus on in those moments.

  “Check the envelope on the table. Her stalker strikes again.”

  “Goddammit. Again?”

  “Right?”

  Despite the need surging through my loins, I shut the door and stripped down.

  Then I fucking resisted as hard as I could, knowing if I beat off to him now, I’d never stop, and I’d spend every shower fantasizing about the way I wanted his hands on my body.

  I thought if I ignored my erection long enough and pretended it wasn’t there, the lust would fade on its own.

  I was wrong.

  By the time I finished buffing myself dry, exhaustion blanketed my body and my hard-on remained in a state of half-assed arousal. I wrapped a towel around my body and shuffled out anyway to find Suraj pacing and holding his cell phone to his ear.

  Chinese takeout turned my reentry to the room into an aromatic experience, one I couldn’t enjoy with a half-naked tiger prowling on the carpeted floor.

  He spoke in his native language—either Tamil or Telegog, I wasn’t sure—and wore a soft smile on his handsome face. I couldn’t understand a word despite my fluency in several Middle Eastern tongues. The two regions were nothing alike.

  Powerful muscles flexed and moved with his stride. He wore boxers low on his hips, that treasure trail of black silk leading down to an apparent bulge I couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard I fought to avert my gaze instead to his golden eyes and—

  Fuck. His eyes were directed toward me, and never had it been more apparent I’d been caught checking a guy out than it was at the moment he grinned back at me.

  The noisy rumbling of my stomach filled the room, prompting Suraj to gesture toward the array of takeout boxes on a nearby square table near the window.

  “Help yourself,” he mouthed.

  Instead of dressing right away, I did just that and sought out my favorite chicken and beef low mein, leaving the shrimp products for Suraj. He didn’t eat beef, but I had no qualms about tearing into it, and he didn’t judge me for my tastes.

  “My apologies,” he said at the end of the call, tossing the phone on the bed afterward. He turned and strode toward me, moving into my personal space without hesitation to reach around me for the unfinished shrimp lo mein. “My father called.”

  “Yeah? How’s…” He was so close. Too close. Warm skin brushed mine, and the scent of him overtook my senses. My fingers tingled, imploring me to take ahold of him anywhere skin was bared. I cleared my throat and tightened the grip on my chopsticks to just shy of snapping them. “How are things at home?”

  “Wonderful. I was able to speak with the entire family for once. Everything is fine.” Suraj didn’t move, still in my space, breathing my air while stirring lo mein around chopsticks. “I worried at first when I came to America, but I wasn’t needed after all. My younger brother is only fifteen, but he’s as large as I am now, my father says.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, it’s wild. When I left, he barely came up this high,” Suraj indicated with a hand around his lower chest. “I used to stay awake at night wondering if I had done the right thing, coming here to make a better life for all of us. I love my country, but it’s easier to make a good living here and to send the excess home, you know?”

  “I get it. My parents are…an unconventional mating. They weren’t permitted by either of their parents to be together. So, they ran away to America together and started a new life.”

  “Harsh.”

  “But it all worked out for the best. Just like your being here in America will be the best for your family. Maybe you’ll get to return someday.”

  Suraj chuckled. “Perhaps. I thought of that, but…” A wistful expression came over the man’s face, and he set aside the empty carton to take a long swig from the beer bottle he lifted in its stead. Condensation gathered and trickled down the frosty surface. His reply came after another thirsty guzzle. “America has grown on me.”

  “Feels like home?”

  “Very much. I would not like to leave. Don’t get me wrong—I love my village. I love my people, my family, and everything I left behind. But they will always be here,” Suraj explained with one hand over his heart. “I…”

  Suddenly aware that I’d been eating naked, with only a towel wrapped around my hips for the past fifteen minutes, I dropped the disposable chopsticks in my own empty carton and set it on the table. “Definitely.”

  When I moved to push away from the table, Suraj slid in my wa
y. His breath stirred my drying hair and raised goose bumps over my bare arms.

  “One of us should…” Tension filled my throat and made every breath an effort. I swallowed the hard lump, as furious with my body’s unwanted responses as I was aroused by the man moving into my personal space. It should have activated my fight-or-flight for another shifter to approach me in a silent challenge. Being pinned—practically loomed over—should have been far worse.

  It’s not a challenge.

  Suraj had at least three inches on me, and he used them to his advantage when he loomed over me. His larger frame nudged me backwards until my back hit the wall beside the table, then he pinned me in place with a stronger build. Until that moment.

  Yes!

  Agile, roughly callused fingers smoothed down my abdomen before flirting with the towel wrapped around my waist, and warm breath caressed my ear.

  “Suraj?”

  “Hm?”

  “What are you doing?”

  I could have misread him.

  It could be some tiger shit I don’t know about, sizing up another and testing me to see which of us broke first.

  Except nothing about the way he leaned into my space or caressed my stomach felt like a test of physical prowess or resolve. His touch lit my skin with need. Just a few moments of male attention send my pulse into a furious tempo.

  “Thinking.”

  Breath caught in my throat. “Of?”

  “I don’t think you need this anymore.”

  Suraj ripped off the towel and tossed it aside.

  This isn’t happening.

  It couldn’t happen. It was the biggest breach of protocol next to fucking Penny herself, a thought that only made me groan and seek his mouth. The moment our lips touched, I thought I was gone.

  I’d never wanted to kiss another man the way I was kissing him. His lips brushed mine over and over, the taste on his tongue sweet and masculine, the flavor of cat and beer invading my senses with each delectable stroke. Lust hit me hard in the base of the spine and pounded in my blood to the primal beat that brought my erection to full arousal. I burned up with lust just imagining what it would be like to have his hands on me.

  Then he gave it to me. Long fingers shamelessly took me in hand, and he pumped thrice while my head spun. I forgot how to breathe. I forgot my own name. The thing I'd wanted most since the day Suraj walked into my apartment was happening, and nothing could convince me yet that it wasn't a dream.

  His body pressed mine to the wall in an effortless pin I made no effort to resist. Ever since adulthood, I'd considered myself a muscular and fit guy, but Suraj put me to shame with his bulk, the man's big frame simultaneously chiseled and invitingly soft at the same time. His fingers stroked me to an expert rhythm, rapidly bringing me closer and closer to orgasm. I thrust in his grip and let my fingers wander over his hips, still unconvinced I wasn’t dreaming the entire thing.

  I'd never wanted to come as badly as I did when he abandoned my mouth and bent his head to begin a southern path down my chest. Breath quickened in my lungs, and everything inside me screamed that this couldn't be happening. He paused to devote attention to my pecs with a feline nuzzle that brushed his bearded face against my skin. Then he lingered to lick one of my nipples until it beaded tight and my dick jumped in anticipation, practically shouting What about me? Alas, it wasn't yet its time to shine. Suraj moved to the other and took his sweet fucking time while my body sizzled with need.

  When he finally skimmed his lips over my abdomen, tracing the narrow trail of hair leading toward my shaft, the warmth of his breath caressed my aroused flesh as a sweet, unspoken promise.

  He put his mouth on me, and I swear, I thought I'd pass out from the intensity of his lips wrapping around my cock. Immediately, my fingers fisted in his hair. I groaned and involuntarily bucked as he sucked me in deeper, the slither of his tongue driving me up the wall in ecstasy. He hadn't even begun yet, and I was already putty in his hands.

  “Fuck, dude. Your mouth is…” I swallowed and tilted my head back against the wall. I didn't dare to look down at him, petrified I would blow my load the moment I saw him gazing up at me with those gorgeous brown eyes fixed on mine, my dick buried in his mouth. He released me for as long as it took to glide his tongue over my length, only to reclaim my shaft again. Then he began his slow rhythm, swallowing me one inch at a time while I watched, mesmerized by his ability to deep throat. The man had skill.

  Suraj pulled his mouth off of me. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Stop? Fuck no.”

  “Then look at me when I am pleasuring you, Nadir. I want you to look at me during every second. I want you to see it is me giving you this pleasure.”

  I didn't know what to expect when I looked down at Suraj, my work partner, roomie, and friend. Smoldering golden eyes met my gaze, set within a breathtakingly beautiful face. Very deliberately, he dipped his head forward without breaking contact, and he surrounded my cockhead with his warm mouth.

  The next few moments became a blur of ecstasy as we found our rhythm together, my fingers threading through his dark hair. He made the sexiest noises alive when he was blowing me, growls and moans that blended together, each sound enriching the other. My entire consciousness boiled down to two words, a repetitious mantra of, fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck yes. Over and over I thrust in between his lips, positive I was losing my mind. The way he looked at me should have been illegal in all fifty states.

  I came hard and embarrassingly quick, faster than a teenager touching a tit for the first time. As my body shook with ecstasy, my fingers tightened on Suraj’s hair.

  Fuck. He swallowed it all. Then, like the feline he was, he slid up my body again. I was the mouse under the cat's paw as he captured my earlobe between his teeth.

  “Felt like it was long overdue,” the tiger growled against my ear. His body pressed close, so gorgeously muscled that I hated the near distance prevented me from enjoying the sight.

  “Fuck,” was all I could breathe.

  “We’ll do that, too.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Penny

  Shantal thought I was insane when I refused to task a personal assistant with answering all of my fan mail and pretending to be me on my social media accounts. On some days, when the crazy demands of my wild career had me ready to pass out in bed, it was real tempting to just snap my fingers like a true diva and have someone else answer all these questions.

  I didn't do that though. I wanted the relationship with my fans. I liked those rare moments when I recognized a frequent commenter on my Instagram or the same person tagging my Facebook Mentions, singing praises about my most recent LP.

  After a long-ass bubble bath in the outrageously large tub, I sprawled across my bed in an oversized night shirt and scoped out my accounts one by one. The guys messaged me to ask if I wanted in on their enormous Chinese food order. I declined on account of planning to save some calorie freedom for the culinary tour of Chicago planned with Harper and Aiko. We wanted to eat our way through the Windy City, and it seemed a waste to begin now for subpar takeout.

  Lo mein sounded real good, though. I reconsidered a few times then decided against it, chugging my nutrition via a smoothie bottle instead. I had to walk a fine tightrope to avoid bloating too much, otherwise my wardrobe team lost their shit if they had to let out the seams on one of my tight outfits.

  No, I told myself, resisting. I had to be strong. I had to save those banked calories for our weeklong festival of fine dining at some of the best restaurants and dives Chicago had to offer. We could have spent all of our money eating high-end, luxury cuisine, but some of the best places in the city were those little food carts alongside the road, or the small shops with boarded-up windows.

  The promise of sauerkraut and polish sausage watered my mouth. But waiting would be worth it once I had a paper sack of delicious fries in front of me—a rare treat because I had to pile the high-carb value meals toward the end when a portion of the tour wa
s over. I had five beautiful days between the last performance and our first evening in Cincinnati. Plenty of time to detox and chug water to wash away the bloat.

  Sometimes, I missed the normalcy. I missed being able to eat an entire bag of Doritos or hork down half a cake from the supermarket bakery.

  Don’t get me wrong. I wasn't ashamed of my figure, and I didn't starve myself—I loved eating too much for that—but I definitely could have lost a few pounds or fifty. Even though my brand was all about body positivity, insulin resistance and diabetes ran heavily on my mom's side of the family. I had to be careful. I was fit now, but I hadn't always been.

  It was all about moderation.

  I scrolled through a few images and read the tweets mentioning my name. My fans loved the recent campaign I'd modeled in for a popular plus-size company. I scrolled through a few negative comments, rolling my eyes the whole way because, once again, it proved some of my biggest critics didn't know shit about me.

  “I bet she doesn’t even wear this shit.”

  “Her jeans probably cost two hundred dollars.”

  “If I put that shirt on, I’ll look like I'm wearing a potato sack. I call bullshit. It’s all tailored to her.”

  “Agreed. There’s no way she’s wearing that shit off the rack.”

  “She’s so fucking fake.”

  First of all, I didn't own a single pair of jeans over thirty dollars if they weren’t gifted to me, and the entire point of the campaign had been for me to strut around in clothing off the rack to highlight the adaptability of the designs for the everyday, average woman. I couldn't attach my brand to something I didn’t believe in.

  And I liked affordable clothing.

  My bodyguard, on the other hand, frequently showed up for work in Gucci and Armani, something I hadn't known until I read some fan comments breaking down his clothing choices one day. I never bought the pricey stuff, didn’t even wear it unless a brand approached my agent and gave it to us in exchange for the publicity.